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Call brings memories from the past
By ELEANOR D. RYAN It was one of those cold, rainy, dreary days and looked like it wasn't likely to clear up. We ate breakfast, read the paper and decided, since we didn't have any commitments, we'd crawl back into bed for an hour or two. In no time Tom was "sawing logs," and I was just drifting off when the telephone rang. Before I had a chance to say "Let it ring," Tom jumped up out of a sound sleep and was in the hall and answering it. "Hello, yes this is Tom Ryan. Yes, my wife is Eleanor. Yes, I was in the Navy." Oh no, I thought. It can't be someone doing a survey this early. "Yes, in the late '40s we lived in Masontown, Pa. I was a Navy recruiter in Uniontown. Yes! Margaret and Walter Honkowicz lived next door to us. I think you had better talk to my wife." When I heard Honkowicz mentioned, I jumped out of bed. "Hello, is this Margaret Honkowicz? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." By now my thoughts went back 45 years to when my Christmas card was returned. "I thought Margaret had crossed me off her list, I had no idea she had died!" "She died in 1959," said the voice on the other end. "By the way, this is her daughter." Now the story gets interesting: "I was very young when she died," she continued. "But I still remember how each year she would look forward to receiving a card from the Ryans. The last one had a picture of you and your husband and five children, which read, 'Merry Christmas from Tom Ryan and crew.' " "That's amazing!" I said. "How did you find me?" "My husband and I were in a restaurant last night, and an acquaintance of ours came over to our table and asked, 'Wasn't your maiden name Honkowicz? I was on the Internet, reading the St. Petersburg Times and read a story a lady in St. Petersburg wrote about the Quecreek mine disaster. She mentioned that she had lived in Masontown next door to Margaret and Walter Honkowicz.' " "I couldn't wait to get home and on the Internet," she said. "I called several Thomas Ryans before I got you. Please tell me about my mother. What was she like? What was your impression of her?" By this time I could hardly speak. I couldn't believe my ears. Was I dreaming? "Well, your mother was very short." "Yes, yes, I'm only 5 foot 2. What else?" "She never wore shoes. Even when there was snow on the ground, she would hang her clothes on the line, barefoot. She showed me the bottoms of her feet one day and they looked like leather! She taught me how to starch and iron white shirts when I asked where I could take them to be washed. She couldn't believe anyone would pay to have a shirt washed and ironed. She taught me how to make Hungarian nut bread. When I proudly had her over for coffee and my first bread, she smiled at me and asked, 'Did I forget to tell you to take the shells off the pecans before you baked it?' We laughed about that and she cautioned me to be more careful when shelling them. Your mother cleaned house every minute she was up. I learned so much from her." She thanked me, we said our goodbyes, and we hung up. I was breathless, but stupidly didn't ask for her address or phone number. Why would her friend be reading the St. Petersburg Times? Had he once visited or lived here? So many unanswered questions and I may never find her again. What a wonderful feeling to know that someone out of the past still remembered me. Many years ago, a nun told me, "All through our lives we leave our seeds. Make sure you leave good seeds." A new adventure every day. I won't be so fast to say, "Let it ring," in the future. It might be a call that could change my life -- or brighten some else's. -- Eleanor Ryan lives in St. Petersburg.
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